And Now It's Time
by cacophonous-noise
Summary: It is blissful like finally the way comfort sweeps through his bones at her touch. She grins when he pulls back, looking up at him with her big blue eyes. "Hi," he says, like nothing is new, like in fact this is every day.


_I know, I know! I'm supposed to be working on Trade. _

_But I just couldn't get this idea out of my head. _

...

They're supposed to be visiting universities on the Accepted Students Day sweep. Their latest visit, however, took them so close to this particular landmark, that not one of them has seen before even though they've lived here all their lives, so Nora and George insisted they stop. And this is how they end up alone, with his dad and Nora in the gift shop, and Casey standing against the rails, the mist and wind tousling her hair in a hurricane off her neck. But she is laughing—not trying frantically to keep it pinned back and trapped, safe behind her ears. Derek stands some ten feet away, smiling, thinking that no one here knows who they are and there she is: looking absolutely radiant.

And here, safe inside his mind, he can move without thinking. So he does, covering the ten feet between them like they are little more than inches, wrapping his arms around her waist and tucking his head into the nook between her shoulder and neck. She doesn't protest, and that doesn't surprise him like it should because he is already busy whispering gentle insults in her ear. Casey turns around glaring, but trapped still, happily, in his embrace.

Their faces are less than a foot apart and she starts going off on him, her mouth forming words that his ears do not hear. He smiles, which only serves to make her angrier, stars in his eyes like there isn't a thing in the world she could do wrong.

Derek raises his right hand and smoothes her hair out of her face and—and he kisses her, knotting his fingers in the hollow behind her neck because it is time.

And it is the way she laughs then, sweet like summertime when he takes her lower lip between his teeth and she swings her arms up to wrap wide around his shoulders.

It is blissful like _finally_ the way comfort sweeps through his bones at her touch. She grins when he pulls back, looking up at him with her big blue eyes.

"Hi," he says, like nothing is new, like in fact this is every day.

Her smile spreads wider, the reflection of the sun off the water shining on her teeth, and laughter is still on her voice when she says hello back.

He squeezes his fingers in her hair, the breath in his body heavy, and she draws a deep swallow of air, her smirk speaking volumes, so good it almost rivals his own, crossing her face as she pulls him flush against her. And the pair of them collide with the railing, clinging to one another desperately as the full wrath of Niagra Falls rains down behind them. In seconds their bodies are slick with the water, or perspiration—with her hands in his back pockets pulling his heat into the core of hers—he stopped trying, caring really, to determine which was which. He bears his teeth, nipping playfully along her neck; Casey flings her head back, over the rails and directly into the mist. He hears, very dimly the "Mommy, look!" shout of a toddler just out of reach.

Derek reaches around to grasp her hand, pulling her with him, down the slippery path, running because this moment is more important than avoiding puddles with care. Miraculously, she is still laughing, still running, repeating his name over and over in breathless, fruitless protest and all he is thinking is: someplace more private—more private—before he embarrasses himself, and all of Canada, half of America too, is treated to a show they won't soon forget...

Her hand is in his and they're off, Derek leading her deeper into the stacks, to a faraway place among the meager selection of fiction books that no one will touch during finals. They stop; his hand falls to rest on her backside as he pushes her up against a row of Steig Larssons. Had she been conscious of her surroundings beyond his face and his wide swollen lips, Casey would have protested spending any time at all near those novels, "The only thing I've ever read that was better in a movie," she had said to him once after walking past someone reading it. But not now, when she can hardly take notice of anything beyond his hands, pushed up under her loose tee and wrapped, fingers tight, around her waist. He is kissing down her neck, wet sloppy things because she tastes so good he cannot control himself.

She is moaning his name in soft breathy little spurts that drive his cock wild; her head thrown aside in ecstasy, curious abandon. She manages to find the hem of his shirt just above his ass and snakes her hands, deliciously cold at the fingertips up along the naked skin of his back to cup his shoulder blades and pull him close.

And all of this is going on, he's practically panting, driven forward by the overwhelming desire of his sex, trailing down the vee of her tee shirt to bury his face in her breasts, and she's there, eyes open with her hand holding the back of his head and totally coherent going, "So what did you think of this one?"

"This school?" He manages, even though he's busy dreaming his tongue along the lacy edges of her bra.

"Yes," she says, irritatingly crisp, dancing her fingers differently now across the top of his waistband, "Could you see yourself going here?"

If he hasn't already accepted the fact that his only criteria in higher education is a stellar hockey program and her, the former totally optional if pressed, then he doesn't deserve to graduate. But he doesn't tell her that.

She blathers on when he doesn't answer, something about the ratio of students who compete athletically versus those who don't as if it matters to him. He kisses harder, nosing the cups of her bra down below her breast, forcefully resolving that no matter the cost, he will make her forget her words...

He hears footsteps on the landing, so he kisses her through the closest doorway, and pulls the knob shut soundly behind them. He recaptures her lips with a sigh and they bicker without words, vying for dominance here, even engaged in such an act of love. She takes his lower lip between hers, sucking and nipping and running her tongue across it in soothing patterns. He should melt into her kiss, but he pulls away, astonished she could get the better of him, so he busies himself ridding her shoulder of her tank top with his teeth. He likes a challenge, and his hands are full, flicking his thumbs across her nipples in time with her staccato heartbeat, while Casey asks him asinine questions like, "So have you picked a university yet?" And he wants to answer back with something snarky like, "SpaceCase, I haven't even decided on what I'm having for breakfast this morning..." but then he successfully removes her strap and the top of her baby blue bra is peeking out. Suddenly, winning a verbal sparring match is at the bottom of his To Do list. And he yanks of the other strap, quickly with his hands and her top falls, pooling lovingly around her waist, level with the shelf holding Boggle and Sorry! And only is such a sentiment was reflected on his face, then maybe she wouldn't look so damn angry while she grabs his shoulders, shoving him roughly up against the shelves. She stares back at him, collarbones splashed with pink, fiercely splitting his name into two as she pins him where he stands, the air in her lungs teasing, pushing her chest just so that it is almost touching his, but not.

Derek stands still; his pajama pants, slung low on his hips are tented, straining towards her. Casey stands just out of his reach, mouth on fire with a look of _you will answer my question _in her eyes.

_No_, he says with his answering smirk. And he reaches around her and with one quick flick of his wrist, he undoes the clasp of her bra, leaving it hanging precariously by its straps, still clinging to her shoulders, daring her to clip it back into place. But she shrugs instead, and the baby blue cups go tumbling to the floor in between an open box of Monopoly and a set of Connect Four that's surely missing all of the pieces.

They both surge forward, into one another with a sigh of relief. His hands are on her naked hips first, holding her to him. And then they're cupping her cheek, in her hair, the back of her neck, full with her breasts. She draws her own fingers, nails scratching, up his back, whimpering. Derek and Casey kiss like they fight, their breath coming short in the milliseconds their lips are apart. Her knees are weak, her mouth is desperate. And she can't feel anything past his skin on hers and the torrent of breath in their chests.

There are footsteps again on the landing, a tiny voice and a timid knock on the door to the closet, "Smerek, are you in there?"

His tears his mouth free from hers, barely forcing the words from his throat as Casey abandons everything, dropping to her knees as she kisses her way down his chest, "Yeah, Smarti. Casey and I are—" he hisses when her lips reach his waistband, "We're looking for something."

"Well open up," his sister demands, "I need my puzzle."

Casey looks up at him lazily, her eyes hooded with lust. She gathers her tank top back up, shrugging, "We found it, kiddo. Be out in a sec."

They're still flushed when they walk out of the closet, headed away from one another to their separate bedrooms.

Marti bounces into the games closet, "Casey, you left your bra in here," she says, popping her head out, the offending garment in her hands.

Casey catches his eye, screeches his name just like old times, "How many times do I have to tell you to stop stealing my underwear?" She rescues it from Marti, crisis easily averted...

The last of their siblings bound down the stairs, heading out for respective after school activities; Casey closes his bedroom door behind her.

He looks up from his computer, spinning his chair around to face her. He barely has time to notice she is there before her mouth is on his and she's climbing into his lap and he could protest the intrusion, but why would he want to?

And they stay like that for a while, their momentum spinning the chair languidly, as they kiss and nuzzle and make eyes at one another, thrilled with how time feels so endless now that they have the house to themselves. He spends most of his coherent thought marveling, glad that his desk chair is one of those armless numbers, because not even dancer's legs flexible as hers would be able to pull off this maneuver with chair arms in the way.

"I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours," she says and her tone is lazy, but the way she's taking off her shirt is not. And can she really expect him to answer when she's getting naked before his eyes.

"Don't you mean show me?" And really he's rather proud of that one...

She digs her knees into the seat of his recliner on either side of his hips, kissing away the words in his throat. His cannot feel anything other than the naked skin of her back. He whimpers when she pulls away, but the sight of her panting in his lap, the two of them locked into one another in his _chair_ of all places, her lips swollen with his kiss; the air between them is tight it hurts. He arches up off the seat, pushing desperately into her center, the seams of their jeans pressed where they need the other most.

Derek wraps his mouth around her nipple, tracing a finger up her side. Her body is on sensual overload, stuck in the decision between laugh because she's been tickled, or moan because she is on the path to a whole different kind of oblivion.

She moans. It's loud and entirely indecent, his name in two syllables of glory.

He lets go and she presses her chest to his. Derek wraps his arms around her tighter as he kisses along her neck. Casey can feel her heart beat in her clit and she's desperate for harder contact. Her knees shift, Derek is groaning and Casey plays with her fingers at the nape of his neck. She licks her lips right alongside his ear.

"So, what's it going to take for you to tell me which college you chose?"

He looks up at her. Her eyes are heavy, and she's biting her lip and it isn't fair. It is not fair that she can have coherent thought at a time like this, with is cock pressed up against her core, aching and hard and—he glares at her. What's it going to take to get her to shut _up_. He buries his face in her breasts. "Der-rek, seriously."

He digs his fingers into her sides, and she gasps, arching her back as he tongues a line along her sternum, her tits pressed together on either side of his face. She keeps arching, a slew of noises coming out of her mouth that are deliciously not verbal.

Derek picks up his legs to push her closer to him and she screeches; their equilibrium shifts and his easy chair goes tumbling seat over backrest to the floor. Her breathing is erratic and her chest looks fantastic: he laughs, Casey collapses on top of him, her fit of giggles convulsing her body in all the right places.

He rolls them so they're both lying on their sides, heads propped on the overturned pillow back of the chair. Their breath comes lazily then as the laughter subsides and Derek takes advantage; he pops open the closure of her jeans and slips a hand around to cup her ass…

Derek spins and lifts her up onto the countertop. He pushes his way between her knees and she throws her head back in surprise when he pulls her to the edge, the hard line of his cock pressed up against the thin cotton of her panties. The ladle falls from her hands, splattering sauce along the front of the cabinets, her bare feet and the cuff of his jeans.

They don't notice. Her free hand flies up to grip one of the upper cabinets because his teeth are under her skirt and on her thigh. Derek slides her panties down her legs, using his fingers where he isn't using his teeth.

She clenches all of the muscles she has as he kisses down her shin, tosses her underwear over his shoulder and starts licking a line up the inside of her other leg. And she screams when he reaches the apex of her legs that go until tomorrow, lets her body go slack and he tongues her center. In a second, her legs are wrapped around his head and his face is flush with her.

Casey moans, loud and bone banging things that mess with his dick. He presses his nails into her legs and her fingers tangle in her hair. He can't breathe, he can only taste and she's soaking and sweet and convulsing all around him.

So he stops and she keens, fussing with her ankles at his back trying to pull him back.

Derek looks up at her, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, "Sorry, did I interrupt something?"

She doesn't know if he means cooking dinner or impending orgasm but it doesn't matter because she can't think. "Der-rek," she still splits his name, but it's different; her voice cracks in the middle and it's damn sexy…

"Derek," she trails her fingers up his thigh, her arm slung carelessly over the center console, "What is it really going to take for you to tell me?"

He knows she's looking at him with that big wide eyed and entirely pitiful gaze, and that's why he doesn't take his eyes off the road.

"I suppose I'm going to have to cave and tell you which school I picked, huh?"

"Case," he meets her eyes for the briefest second, "I already know which school you're going to." He doesn't, but he has a pretty damn good guess.

"Derek!" she hisses, and in the same moment, the asshole in front of him stops short. Derek slams on the brakes and her hand goes from lying innocently on his thigh to full blown over the jeans hand job.

His intake of breath is swift and very tight in his throat.

"Oh my god—are we okay—is the car—well, who really cares about the Prince anyway—" and on she goes still with her hand cupping his cock. "Derek, why aren't you moving the car?"

"I—Casey—your hand—it's—"

She grins up at him, a mischievous glint in her eyes, "Oh you are so going to tell me what college you chose," she swears, and moves for the button on his jeans.

"Casey, what are you—"

"Just drive, Derek. You're causing a jam."

He hears her lick her thumb—he cannot look at her, he'll explode right then—while she pulls his dick free with her other hand. When she touches the wet finger to the head, he gasps, and stomps on the gas pedal.

"Watch what you're doing, Derek. If we crash, you won't be able to finish."

He swallows. She closes her tight little fist around him. This is a dream. This is not happening. Casey is not jacking him off in the car. The moving car. The moving car that he is driving.

Her hand is wrapped around the base of him, pumping quickly. He breathes and tries to ease along through traffic.

"So is it University of Toronto? Because honestly, I thought their biology program was a bit lacking," and on she goes, never losing her rhythm on his cock, "stellar athletics, though. 'Course, sports aren't everything—Derek?"

Her hand stops moving, and he swears he'll deny it later, he whimpers. "Derek, what do you think of U of T?"

He cannot—He is driving. Hi grips the wheel harder. He is driving and that is about all he can concentrate on right now, because even though she isn't doing anything, her hand is still all over him. There is a rustle beside him and—

Fuck. _FUCK_. CASEY IS NOT. CASEY CANNOT BE SUCKING HIM OFF WHILE HE DRIVES THEM TO SCHOOL.

Derek moans.

It's hot and tight and warm. And it's wet. It's so fucking wet he can't stand it. He doesn't want it to end. Mostly because it feels like—fuck, mostly because she can't talk with his dick in her mouth. She sucks him then, harder; he makes a right turn. He has to get off the main road.

She slides up, so her lips are only wrapped around the tip, her tongue flicking around all of his edges, and she starts speaking again, "But I suppose," she kisses, "with your grades," lick, suck, kiss, "athletics _are_ everything."

And shit, doesn't she know he cannot fucking concentrate. He pulls the car over and flips off the engine.

Casey looks up, as if she's surprised he needed a change in venue.

"Jesus Christ, Case," he breathes.

They stare at one another and the corner of her lip quirks up into a lazy smile. Her lips are swollen, and he jerks her over the console and into his lap—and god if he's suppose to be at school in twenty minutes listening to his insufferable homeroom teacher—Casey is wet and her center lands right on his dick—he could really use a—she gasps, he groans—needs a cold fucking shower…

Casey pins him to the wall, and dances her soapy breasts down his chest until his dick rests between them, triumphant and slick with—with everything: water and sweat, soap and want. It's the middle of the night, everyone is asleep. The window to the bathroom is thrown open. He can hear the cicadas and the night owls, and the constant thrum of nature over the patter of water and the beat of his heart.

He holds her shoulders like they're a life raft, her fingers on his hips as she pulls him in and out of her mouth. She's perfect, she's brilliant and she deserves to feel better than he can. So he picks her up and turns them so she's against the wall. Her ass smacks the cold tile and she screams a little gasp that he swallows with his lips. Casey hitches a leg up on his hip and throws back her head. He draws circles on her neck with his tongue. And he should have left her mouth open because she starts running it again, "I really want to go to Queen's, but I know it's not your style—"

He sucks her pulse point.

"Der-rek!"

He slicks his fingers with water from the showerhead and pushes them inside of her.

"Derek," she pants, "Christ, don't— Don't stop."

With a sigh, Casey slings her leg over his shoulder, and god, she's making damn sure he'll never be with anyone who's not a dancer ever again. Casey has entirely lost herself now. How she is even standing is a miracle, with one foot in the air and the other barely touching the wet floor. How is he even standing one solid pile of lust and need and…

He lands back on his bed, with Casey straddled over him before he can even act surprised. She watches him as she opens her legs to him, teasing him at her entrance.

"Fuck, Case."

With a smile, "Kindly," and she slides down, taking all of him with a single sigh. She's slick and wet and gorgeous like he only imagined. Her breasts are bouncing and she's radiant, riding him in a dance that's for no one but him. One of her hands is in her hair and the other roams his chest.

"Derek?" she asks.

He opens his eyes, lazily, "Casey, yes."

But her face contorts in annoyance and _fuck_, was she talking again?

Casey leans into him. Their bare chests touch in a moment that stops his heart. Her lips are right by his ear and this angle is so much better; his dick slides into her even deeper. Casey circles her hips, once and again, moaning.

"What do I do, Derek?" Abandon my dreams so I can go to school with you—or—"

She breaks, and cannot finish her sentence. Casey kisses him instead, all tongue and force and fuck—what was she doing thinking of not going to Queen's?

Derek grabs her wrists and flips them over. He pins her arms above her head. Casey is panting now. "Derek," she tries, writhing underneath him. He's still firmly inside of her—damn if he's ever able to leave. And she wants him to pick up the pace. "I'm so, so close," she gasps, "So close to losing it," and he knows she doesn't mean what he wants.

With every resolve, Derek pulls out of her, flipping them over so he stares down at her from above, "Don't you dare, Head Case."

She closes her eyes, the loss of contact is too much, "What?" is all she can manage.

"You're going to Queen's."

"Derek, I can't—not without—"

"You don't have to," he slams back into her, his chest and her chest bare and warm and he can feel her heart.

"Derek?"

"I got in to Queen's, Case. We're going together."

…

And he's in the tiny two bedroom apartment that they share—another one of their parent's brilliant ideas. She's home, it's well past midnight, and most likely asleep. But he looks down at his hand on his cock and he swallows. Maybe, maybe it's time to— So he stands up, drags his boxers back up his hips and he works his fingers through his tousled hair. He walks out into their little sitting room and he stops in front of her bedroom door. And then he raises his right hand, and he knocks.


End file.
